


Parallels

by skelli



Category: Mass Effect: Andromeda
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-27
Updated: 2020-11-28
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:48:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27746257
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skelli/pseuds/skelli
Summary: At the peak of disaster, with his life on the line, who does Ryder call for help?
Relationships: Male Ryder | Scott/Reyes Vidal
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	Parallels

**Author's Note:**

> A little side project I've been working on that won't fit in my larger piece so I'm making it a two part oneshot with double perspectives of the same situation. Chapter one is Ryder and chapter two will be Reyes. I enjoyed trying my hand at writing Ryder and their relationship from his angle in a cropped window. Timeframe is before High Noon.. haha! Nothing too serious, but I wanted to try it out! 
> 
> I hope everyone's staying healthy! As always, thanks for clicking on my work.

Caked air, dust, residue with traces of burning gunpowder and chemicals, the stuffiness of trapped oxygen. Darkness. Pain, not yet blinding, but everywhere, no means to confirm the worst or the dangerous and the pounding of a headache against ringing ears. Confusion, blacked out memory for the moments before this hard gravel floor and still buzzing legs too weak to move yet and eyes that can’t see. Instincts come to life immediately and he lifts a hand to check his helmet; there’s a leak, his glass is cracked and the warning light is dim in the corner of his vision. He’s on his back, feet heavy. 

SAM speaks up, “Pathfinder. Please do not panic.”

Coughing, throat dry with the bad air and a coppery taste on his tongue, Ryder groans, “That usually does the opposite for most people, SAM.” His head is throbbing but he doesn’t think he has a concussion, and, fingers trembling in the residual effects kicking on late, he manually clicks on his chest light, coming face to face with a chunk of concrete and the crackling debris of old walls collapsing in. His breath comes out visible, a small sliver escaping from his damaged helmet. He doesn’t feel all the bruising yet, but he will, in time. 

Moving up onto one elbow, he attempts to sit up in the small space, narrowed by the fallen ceiling but his body catches and hot, shredding pain rips up the right side of his body, his arm buzzing like needles prickling, quickly going numb. He turns, stomach clenching. A fortifying pole has skewered his shoulder, catching him right between the bones, the soft flesh tearing with each movement, his suit crackling, jerking a bolt of electrical current in its stages of failure. Like a brick wall, the injury makes Ryder swoon and he almost passes out again, eyelids fluttering, blood rushing from his head and he quickly lays back down. 

“Pathfinder? Are you in peril?” 

He can’t answer, other hand gripping a chunk of concrete beside him, hoping to find something to stabilize himself. It rolls over him, suffocating, and he gasps, the dusty, dirty air stinging his lungs. It isn’t merely a piece of debris lodged in him and his suit, it’s embedded in the wall above him and is pinning him to the floor. He’s not going to be able just yank it out and roll free. Quickly, coming back into his wits, Ryder checks to see his blood loss, making sure not to move too much, desperate not to lose consciousness a second time. The position has kept him from bleeding excessively, the pole itself keeping his wound closed. 

“Pathfinder?”

Teeth clenching, he finds his voice, “I-I’m okay.” A shot of adrenaline reaches him and it mutes the oncoming bone rattling aching. He can think. He lets the concrete go, squeezing feeling back into his fingers. An explosion caused by a Roekaar ambush rushes back to mind, his stomach falling out from under him as the floor caved, their shields imploding at the first rush of hot air and smoke. His teammates, Liam and Cora, they fell with him, leaving the Nomad outside with Peebee. A distress signal disguising ill intent, and an old Angaran shelter for travelers to hide from the chemically dense air and wildlife. Kadara. An underground basement chamber hidden beneath what appeared a neutral building where someone needed their assistance. Mistake number one, assuming something harmless simply by first glance. 

The crack in his glass cuts his view, but his visibility is still pretty high. Turning his head as far as he can, he angles his light to see further into the uneven cavern.

“SAM…” Ryder says, voice hoarse, “Do we have contact with the Nomad?”

“No answer, Pathfinder.” 

Breathing, chest tightening, Ryder resists the sudden grip of anxiety tearing through, threatening to curb objective thought and fly him right into emotions. He pushes on the piece of concrete above with his good arm, but it doesn’t budge and once more he angles his light to look around. 

“Your vitals are rising. I suggest taking a deep breath. We appear to have been hit by an EMP. It is possible the Nomad was not struck but we cannot confirm at the moment.”

“Not helping my vitals.” 

“Further blood loss may result in unwanted complications, Pathfinder.” SAM politely reminds him, as decent as commentary over tea. This may as well be their tea time though. 

“How-“ A burst of pain snatches his words and he clenches his teeth, suddenly feeling warmth along his upper back. “How long until we’re back online?” 

“Considering the strength of the blast, I would estimate just under an hour. But I will make attempts to reach the networks before then.”

To his left, with the dust finally settling, he catches a glimpse of something that gives him both a sense of hope and heart wrenching worry. White blond hair dyed red, an unmoving hand, Cora’s face passive like sleep, her body just barely safe beneath an angled piece of flooring. He stares, gripping the pole, ready to lift the entire structure off himself in order to get to her. His suit joints hiss, pushing to their limits, determination settling overtop fear. If he puts his team in this situation, then Ryder’s getting them out. 

The concrete twitches against his hand but a rock falls and he jerks his head just out of the way, it rolling awkwardly, heavily several inches away. He looks at it, a moment of silence between him and SAM that he is sure would be the AI giving him a pointed, knowing look if it was possible.

“It is too unstable to force our way out. We should proceed with caution, we do not know the stability of the piece above Harper.” 

“Roger that.” He sighs, thankful he didn’t get a face full of rock. A wave of light headedness rolls his eyes back, and he realizes they’re in far greater danger with a much slimmer time limit than he initially thought. He swallows, finding his voice again, “Cora! Can you hear me? Cora!” 

She doesn’t move, dirt and sand running down in trinkling waterfalls from above. Blood is dripping down her forehead, an injury he can’t tell the severity of from this angle. A tremor rumbles through the remnants of the building, shaking the crumbled walls and jolting the pole, cracking against Ryder’s bones, buzzing even the nerves along his spine and his voice yelps in surprise and pain. 

“Ryder?” Someone calls for him, far away, tunneled and distant. Ryder would know that voice anywhere, even if now it is hallowed with concern and relief presses his immediate bodily distress down, bearable simply out of his emotional strength through the recognition of his comrade’s life. 

“Liam!” He calls back, “Are you alright?”

“Could be better!” He answers honestly, “My leg is definitely busted and to make matters worse, it’s trapped beneath this rock.”

Ryder tries to breathe, but it shakes when he exhales. A sharp stab pokes his wound, fresh heat slicking his shoulder. Knowing well what is starting hot and going quickly cold against his skin, he steadies himself, and asks, “Does your light work?”

“For now. It’s been damaged. I’ve only been using it when necessary. Looking at the walls about to fall on me gives me claustrophobia.”

Lips quirking with the man’s resilient humor, his good nature fluid even at the worst of times, he presses, “Can you see where I’m at?”

It’s a moment before he gets a response, the slightest sound of scraping keeping his attention and a light whirls ever so slightly in the corner of Ryder’s vision. 

“Barely. You’re raised above me but there’s enough space to possibly crawl through or pass something. Thank god you’ve got a plan, I was beginning to get worried.”

Ryder feels a sting, mostly by his own conscience but he holds strong, because his team needs him, “We’ve got time before we are able to go online and contact anyone. I’m going to try to pass you my omni-blade so you can hopefully maneuver your leg out from under that rock.”

“Tell me Cora’s alright.” Liam says suddenly, and his tone is serious. He can hear the strain in Ryder’s voice, and the indication it holds to their situation, even if his Pathfinder will try to bear the burden. They’ve been together long enough now that reading each other is inevitable. 

Ryder hesitates, but knows this isn’t the place to lessen the blow, “She’s injured. Unresponsive.” 

The silence hurts as much as the admittance. 

Above them more shaking rumbles through the remaining structure, and dirt rains down, the ceiling piece above Ryder coming centimeters closer. He jerks up a hand in instinct, pressing his palm against it and says, “Liam?”

“Yeah?”

“You ready?”

“Throw it to me straight, Ryder. I don’t have the slack for any curve balls.” 

Breathing a laugh, Ryder unlatches the band of his blade, disconnecting it from his omni-tool, and tests the weight of the device in his palm, gripping and ungripping it to feel his strength. He wishes he had his right arm, one better for aim and precision but beggars can’t be choosers and he looks over his shoulder and up, seeing the light faintly through a narrow but not impossible to hit slot of concrete. 

He breathes, rolls his good shoulder, knows this is an opportunity that can increase their chances of survival greatly if he makes it and lets the weight of his contribution steel his nerves. Both feet planted firmly on the ground, he twists along the pole, grinding his collarbone like a saw, dizzying himself with pain and arches his arm, giving it a good, hard toss with his wrist and elbow. It glides through the air, taking his breath and holding it hostage as it arches cleanly. 

Something tight pinches inside his chest, crackling and he quickly collapses back to the ground, gripping dirt with his hand in an involuntary response to the strain. But he can’t look away, head angled as he watches the band slide, dust and sand making for better traction to spin it right into the slot and down, dropping out of sight. He wants to ask if it’s in reach, but he can’t even draw air, his hand quickly coming to his rib cage, which protests immediately like a bruise too deep to even be touched. He gasps, but it catches and he pales, trying for smaller more strangled breaths but finding a suffocating weight from inside keeping him light headed. 

“I’ve got it, Ryder! Great throw!” Liam exclaims and when he receives no answer, he calls, “Ryder?”

A cough shatters through him and suddenly blood pools out of the top of his wound, cascading along his throat, a gruesome necklace of his own life. He presses his weak fingers to it, hand putting pressure even though his shoulder deftly protests, and wheezes, “I’m… okay.” But he knows this is bad. So bad he’s beginning to float back into his head, see things, his sister at their graduation and her proud, beaming smile with all her teeth and her uniform perfectly in place, their father putting a hand on each of their shoulders while their mother takes a picture at the beach wind running through her hair on the other end of the lens, his first outpost when everything felt unsurmountable and hopeless, Liam clapping him on the back and saying, “We did it!” And nothing feeling more satisfying than the smiles of his team and the proof that his father wasn’t wrong to put him in his shoes. A charming smile over intelligent brown eyes and hot hands. No, he turns his head, he can’t get sentimental here. Whiskey on a rooftop, everything his young heart had wanted for, a private moment with the glory of a sunset he thinks he’s earned and the hot affection in his stomach for a man he wants to see more than anything. A confession-

“Ryder!”

“Pathfinder.” 

His name, his title pulls him free, but he’s cold now, and his arms and legs are protesting even the simplest of movements. Momentarily, he’s forgotten where he’s at, confusion indicating his blood loss and he blinks at the fogginess, determined not to let his team down as he pieces it all back together, heart aching as much as his body. 

“Ryder, don’t fuck around, answer me!” Liam shouts at him, the distress real, and he swallows around a dry throat, “S-sorry,” His voice sounds hoarse, rasping around his likely collapsed lung, “I’m losing blood faster than I thought.”

“Just- wait!” 

Desperation becomes them, and he knows that feeling. His back is almost numb, the chill a blanket to put him to sleep which he resists courageously, turning back towards Cora, seeing her fingers twitch, pull in. It revives his resolve, and he tests the pole, aware of its function in holding this piece of concrete away from him. If he can remove this pole, he can move. If he can move, he can crawl out of here with her on his back. But even the slightest move of the metal rattles electricity up his body, the brittle pain hitting him even at the center of his bones.

He grits his teeth, heart racing, knowing that it’ll hurt more than he wants to endure. The entire structure moans, creaking ominously above. If it crushes them, nothing will matter anymore. Hazel brown eyes crease with genuine amusement on him behind his eyelids, and just as vividly he smells cologne, woody and specific, and smoke, the air transforming in his weakening. He wants to see him again. His throat squeezes. 

“Pathfinder, I have connection to the local networks.”

He almost faints with relief. Arm dropping, the world spinning, black caving in on his vision, he embraces the thin hope that everything will be alright. He needs help, they need help but now he has it. His mind sinks further but he believes in one thing here on this planet. 

“Call Reyes…” 

The line rings.

And the man picks up. 

“Ryder?” 

Consoled at just hearing the man’s voice, endlessly thankful he’s on the line, Ryder has his voice, even though it’s weak, “Reyes… I need your help…I’m-it-” His chest feels like it’s going to cave in just like this basement and he groans, breath rattling, “Cora’s hurt, Liam’s leg- I need you.” He confesses, lying on his back in his own blood beneath walls broken and the efforts to bury him. It speaks further than just this moment but he doesn’t have the senses to avoid revealing himself. 

“I have your coordinates.”

Ryder breathes in reassurance at the man’s strength, his immediate handle on the situation and relaxes, catching on far too late that it is his sheer will holding him to reality. Reyes’ voice drops lower, “Are you hurt, Ryder?” Hearing that tone would normally make him swoon, his name becoming something intimate, something special, but here it really flattens him, makes him want to tell the man whatever he wants to hear. He’ll tell the truth. 

Eyelids fluttering, he almost sinks right into a spell of exhaustion, but he yanks hard on his mind and, although he usually has the wits and the defenses to make a joke, lighten the mood, he admits, “I think I’m dying.” The honesty is apparent because he is. “And the building’s going to fall on me.”

Reyes listens, then says, “I’ll be there.”

And Ryder trusts him. 

Darkness appeals too strongly and like a soft, gentle wave on the ocean, he drifts under water, hazy in the details, suddenly in between the sheets of a familiar cot with a pillow under his cheek next to a warm body and the faint sound of a club’s bass from outside strangely like the echo of his own heartbeat. 

X

X

X

The world calls him up out of the depths of deep, penetrating sleep and he softly crests wakefulness, the quiet and comfort of nothingness greeting him like a caress. He feels not an ounce of pain, pleasantly numb, and a sigh rushes out of him, pinching just right and jolting him further into the waking moment.

He’s not in his room, or in the Tempest med-bay, familiarity absent, none of the usual noises of machines, whirling devices, nor the faint hum of the engine greeting Ryder. The walls are a rich grey, a red curtain pulled back but ready to give his bed privacy. Arm flat, turned upward for the IV, he sees the machines following his heartbeat and providing the painless cloud of medication. This room is not one of stark whiteness and doctors, nothing like where Sara is being kept to monitor her among others who have been injured on and off the field but it also does not harbor the heart wrenching sameness of his experience waking after losing his father. 

There is furniture, smooth dark leather chairs, a plant, one with thick heavy leaves in a crimson red pot, a painting of a dark ocean rippling beneath an orange sun falling away in the darkening of night. And there is a person sitting in the chair closest to him, angled in the corner with their feet up on a low table, omni-tool open, dark eyebrows serious, eyes moving while reading. He swipes away a message, gloved fingers thoughtfully stroking his lips at the next, handsome in his contemplation and private thought, unaware of the gaze on him. 

“Reyes..” 

Wound suddenly aching, Ryder’s other hand lifts to touch, to comfort, still a foot in the haze of pain medication and recovery. But he might just be physically reacting to those eyes turning on him, because it throbs again so close to his heart and core he can’t tell the cause. 

“You’re awake.” Reyes vanishes his omni-tool and glides his feet off the table to stand, coming to the bedside and finally a familiar scent rushes over Ryder, one he relishes isn’t the distinct false sweet of chemicals and the effort of masking them, iodoform overlayed with the potent perfume of flowers. It’s a cologne, sharp, woody, and the crisp warmth of a gel atop shampoo that mingles just right with the man’s natural scent. His eyes flutter, and Reyes’ mouth ticks up ever so slightly as he pushes Ryder’s hand back down to the off-white sheets. 

“Where is this..?”

“This is the Collective’s base in Draullir. You’re in the medical unit.” He checks Ryder’s numbers, and picks up the IV tubing, inspecting it, making sure of its proper distribution, intelligence, effortless awareness obvious. Ryder watches him openly, raw, head floating and asks dumbly, “Why am I here?” It holds other questions beneath he doesn’t have the tact to form, the simplicity all he can manage. 

Reyes looks down on him, dark eyes knowing, and he leans onto the bed railing, a mirror image of his casual stance against the bar at Kralla’s Song that makes Ryder teeter towards a swoon, the sight one he can distinguish easily in a crowd, those loosely folded arms and cocked hip. His lips show the echo of a smile, “Don’t you remember who you called for help?”

Ryder’s eyelashes move as he looks over the man, magnetic by every movement, memories slower than his innate affinity for that assured, dauntless expression, an honest inclination following that smooth jaw along his high folded collar and those perceptive, cunning brown eyes that see everything. 

“I called you.” He says, words soft in his mouth, and Reyes hums in agreement, stroking a cheek with the backs of his fingers. 

Ryder turns into the touch, warm fingers comforting after the terrifying cold chill of death and concrete sucking the very heat from his bones and the finger turns to a palm, cupping his cheek, holding the weight of his head. Heart softening, relaxing, he can almost go back to sleep under the comfort of pain medication and this touch which he knew would pull him out of danger. “My team…” He says through the exhaustion, through the gentle sinking spell of sleep. Even though he resists, needing to know he is not the only survivor, Ryder’s eyelids are too heavy to keep open, and Reyes’ palm is too reassuring. 

“They’re okay. Cora’s got a concussion, needed stitches but she’s alright. Liam’s leg has been set and is in a cast. The Nomad has been transferred to the Port, Peebee alive and well. You can rest, Ryder. You made it.”

He needed to hear those words. He put his team in that situation, and somehow, by the thinnest hair, he got them out. Breathing, the muted sting like a sensation just outside of his body a reminder of what he will face when he is more lucid, the Pathfinder allows himself to embrace the directive, floating in this scent he thinks he will carry for the rest of his life. 

X

X

X

When he wakes the second time, his pain is more prominent, harder to ignore but it’s his and he wants it. It doesn’t pull any punches though and knocks the air out of Ryder when he tries to sit up, his lung going hard like a stone and he collapses inelegantly back into the pillows, dizzy and shoulder pulsing thickly. He’s thirsty, and belatedly notices he’s out of his armor, shirtless and in his underpants beneath the sheets. 

“SAM?” He groans, and the AI answers, “Yes, Pathfinder?”

“How long have I been asleep?” His eyes find the corner chair closest to him, an echo of a memory sitting there, a shadow of a moment in time he can’t tell real or just a dream beneath the fog of medication and pain. But he is alone now. 

“Ten hours, Pathfinder.”

Running a hand through his bed head, he sighs, “Feels like it.” Gingerly, careful of his bad side, Ryder sits up fully, positioning the pillows better. This is not the first time he’s looked around this room but it sticks better this time, crystalizing in his mind. There is a sink off to his left, and two chairs with a low table moved toward one and a plant clearly taken care of, seemingly imported from Havarl, it flourishing without direct sunlight. Besides the monitors next his bed, there is silence, and without windows he is truly by himself. 

Touching his bandages, hissing at the brutally tender flesh beneath the white, crisp wrappings, Ryder then examines himself, the dark blots of bruises along his torso, on his thighs and then he notices the other bandage covering the tube in his side. He can barely lean, but he looks over the side of the bed into the tubes’ box, its measurements listed on the front and the various connections to other machines. 

“Can we contact the Tempest? And the rest of the active squad?” He asks, slowly resting back into his pillows, trying not extend any of his wounds, breath short in his chest but not painful like he remembers it being when he was still below the falling building. 

“At our current connection and position, it is impossible, Pathfinder. We would need access to the Collective’s network.”

Ryder sighs and looks across the room again for good measure. None of his belongings are obvious, only the established knowledge that the Collective keeps a well-oiled machine of a base running in the depths of the badlands and they have the ability to provide an entire network with high functioning security and coverage even outside the Port. The Charlatan is everything, especially detail oriented. 

There are no clocks in the room, just the reminding beep of his heart that time is making its way ever forward and Ryder lays back cautiously, his first moment of vivid silence since long before his inheritance of the Pathfinder role. Anxiety thrums beneath the surface, a threat to any peace; he knows things will need his attention- contact that should’ve happened as soon as he was awake, reports and confirmation of his well-being as well as his team’s, another medical assessment by Lexi and any job his body capable of performing but he has no choice but to relax and wait. He massages his old gunshot wound in his left shoulder, chipping away at the tension, his mind distracted by thoughts of work, half-finished documents left on the terminal he swore to find time for, his crusader shotgun partially modded and dissected in the armory, and a promise to return safely to their doctor for a routine check-up he’s been putting off. 

Just the right amount of pressure from his thumb tumbles a wave of released endorphins over him, and the moment becomes a place of considerations, of the ‘ifs’ and the weight of his own life. What he would have left behind, and what would be inherited by the next person. Would Cora take his place as the leader of the Tempest as originally thought? Or would Sara be named the next Pathfinder even before she has a chance to claim her first free step in Andromeda? He squeezes harder, painfully thankful his body hung on, and that Sara has her last walking family member to greet her when she wakes. He’ll take on any scar just for the breaking of another day, another chance to pay his dues. But the personal life he would leave behind… That would be something no one could take his place in, something private and coveted, to be lost with him when the time comes. 

The door pings, sliding open after unlocking from the other side and Reyes walks in, coffee and portable container with a straw inserted in hand and a datapad under his arm. “Ryder,” He says, and how it makes the man ache, strangely vulnerable in his weakened state and the quiet, “I didn’t expect you to be awake.” 

Emotions rush over him, the pang just as vibrant as the pole that drew his blood of how lucky he is to be alive, to be able to fulfill his selfish and desperately confidential wish to see this man again. He looks him over, the leather in muted colors of browns and greys, and how he drinks his coffee, lips turned ever so slightly before he sets the cup and datapad down on the table. Time spent between them, memories he appreciated but now are revered special, nothing guaranteed in the chaos of Andromeda, are gloriously vivid in his mind’s eye. He’s given a lot to the Initiative’s cause, to the leap his father took off the edge of the Milky Way, compromise natural to his role, reservation needed, but gratitude that something he wants, something just for Ryder can walk through the door and not make him flinch at weakness exposed has him somewhat lost for words. That he is entitled to such longings and to have them granted. 

“I brought you some infused water. You’ll need your electrolytes.” Reyes comes to the bedside and Ryder’s good hand reaches out, their fingers grazing along the cup. 

“Thanks.” Ryder says, finding his voice, and Reyes’ smile makes him feel boneless all over again. 

“How do you feel?”

“Can’t complain.” Ryder takes a drink, cool, crisp refreshment heaven sent. Simple satisfaction rushes through him, and he puts the straw back in his mouth for more. 

Reyes raises one eyebrow, casual amusement settling amongst them, easy as usual, no matter their time apart. His gaze drifts up and down the man’s position. 

“Well, I _could_ complain.” Ryder concedes, words thick around the straw, and he smiles with Reyes who moves to the other side of the bed to check his monitors, and the box for fluids. He presses a button by the head of the bed for assistance and then picks up his coffee so he can lean against the wall close by. The last person to make contact with the Pathfinder and the first person upon his waking, Reyes has seen Ryder when every label has been stripped away and this situation is no different. 

“Where’s Cora and Liam?” 

“They’ve returned to the Tempest. They checked on you hours ago, but you were fast asleep and nobody wanted to wake you.”

Ryder, lowering his drink, says, “I should join them soon.”

Reyes inspects him over the rim of his mug, coolly asking, “With your chest tube?”

Seeing that smug look of logic and common sense, Ryder stares, typically able to respond without missing a beat but he finds himself too distracted by how handsome Reyes effortlessly looks, how vibrant desire is pooling in his stomach which is empty and squeezing with hunger and yet still so capable of holding such heavy need. He wants something specific, and it shows in his expression, Reyes coming forward as Ryder’s bad hand grips the bed railing, making his whole right side ache. Reyes leans down, mug still delicately steaming, and murmurs into Ryder’s awaiting mouth, “Stay a few days, think of it as a .. vacation.” He seals the offer with a kiss that tastes deliciously like coffee, Ryder’s stomach completely at attention, hot and thick. Opening his mouth further, the kiss deepens, and the door glides open with a startling swift ping. 

Reyes simply pulls away, standing back, brow smooth, but Ryder’s heart is beating so hard he’s afraid he’ll bloody his bandages. Just another half a second would have been enough for the Angaran nurse to have seen, but she simply smiles, innocent to the tension between them, as she wheels in the necessary changes to the IV and fresh bandages on a cart. She is a delicate purple, just the faintest pink tinting her complexion, and wears gold to accent her uniform, “I’m glad to see your color has greatly improved.” She comments nicely, making Ryder’s cheeks burn brighter. 

Reyes smirks from behind his mug.

Two blue swirling universes look over the Pathfinder, and she offers him another pillow from her cart which Ryder takes gratefully, feeling the intensity of Reyes’ gaze on him from the corner. Fluffing it, she puts a warm hand to his bare chest, helping keep him secure as she positions the white support towards his lower back, smoothing out his others. He relaxes, the comfort helping him breathe easier. 

When the nurse reaches for his bandages, Reyes lifts a hand, “I’ll change his bandages and IV.”

Nodding in easy agreement, she looks pleasantly between them and says, “I have some vitamin squeezes, fruit flavor in the bottom cooler drawer. Would you like me to leave you some?” She begins to pass the fresh white bandages to Reyes and the new IV pouch, and Reyes nods for her kindness so she pulls the drawer out, cool, crisp air rising in a cloud. Two squeezes and a kind smile later, she excuses herself, wheeling the cart back out. 

Distracted by her departure, Ryder doesn’t notice Reyes until he’s standing by the bed again, removing the wrap on the IV bag and inspecting the solution. He glances to Ryder who is watching without reservation, their rare solitude opportunity to be indulgent with attention. Clamping the IV tube, he hangs the new one, removes the spike from the old to spike the full bag and unclamps the tube, gently examining the clear line for issues. When he reaches Ryder’s bare arm, his entirety aches to have even one accidental grazing, days on days spent thinking of those capable hands and the intimacy they’ve shared where they’ve brought him to ecstasy and left their mark on his soul. Reyes’ fingers do touch him, inspecting the place of insertion, warm, and lasting even when he pulls away to grab the bandages.

“The medi-gel helped prevent any further tearing and started the healing process but the wound is still pretty exposed.” Reyes says as Ryder sits forward, hands holding his drink and the bandage is unwrapped from around his back. A stab shoots through his arm and he sucks in air between his teeth, the tender unveiling of his near death slow and careful, “Even my bones hurt.”

“You had some bone shavings loose in the blood and muscle.” Reyes confirms and after exposing the lowest level of bandages taped to Ryder’s reddened, still extremely vulnerable skin, he begins to peel the last covering. 

Woozy from sudden pain and air to the depths of his muscles, Ryder murmurs, “Lovely..” His scarred knuckles look pale against the sheets, tingling from involuntarily squeezing the container a little too tight and he loosens his hold trying to breathe without it catching. Reyes’ hand down his back, smooth on his bare skin settles his stomach and his eyelashes dip, a warmth growing beneath the surface. 

“The pain meds should kick in any second now.” 

“I still haven’t contacted the Tempest..” Ryder says, soothed by the precision of the man’s fingers, the pressure that doesn’t aggravate bruising deep and the gliding presence that never strays too close to flesh violent and raw. Throat relieved, hydration balancing his fluctuating temperature, exhaustion creeps back into the bed with him and blankets the room. 

“They know where you are.” Reyes says, smoothing the front bandage, both sides taped and clean. He pulls free the edge of a roll of bandages and Ryder glances to the disposal can sitting to the side with mottled brown and red blood stains and curled tape, used.

Managing to lift his arm enough to wrap his bicep and across his chest, Reyes reclips the bandage and Ryder finally can lay back, sighing in the plush of pillows. He jerks to access his omni-tool, write that message, half a reflex coming alive but his eyes are already closing and instead his full hand is freed of the weight of a container, allowing him to relax fully. 

To the sound of someone moving around the room, Ryder dips back into sleep, drifting on a dark river that asks for nothing but recuperation of his strength and mindless rest. He obliges, darkness easing responsibility back from the highest priority, medication mellowing any protest he likely would have to time spent solely for his own purposes. 

When he floats back out of sleep like a spell, his stomach is a hollow knot, but he notices the chair has been moved to the bedside and a datapad has been left in it as an indicator of someone returning. The disposal can has been emptied, nothing left over from pain made visible and he grunts, trying to sit up without relying on his bad arm. 

Yawning, he wipes his face with his hand and glances to see if he can’t reach the call button. Twisting, he manages to press it with only a brief albeit startling flash of pain in his ribs and breathes with immediate hesitation, testing his lungs before sitting up. Nothing happens, just the stretching of silence over machines and he waits, watching the door. 

“The button works, right, SAM?”

“By past events, the button’s probability of working is high.”

A nurse comes into the room moments later, quickly pulling her dark brown hair into a ponytail. “Sorry, are you in any discomfort?” 

She comes to the bedside, and checks his vitals, glancing into the IV bag and its drip rate. 

“Not any more than expected.” Ryder answers, watching her, “But I was hoping for a meal.”

Her mouth curves into a smile, and she glances to him as she examines the box on the floor, “Hard work sleeping all day, isn’t it?” She straightens up, and he notices the prosthetics on one hand, a skeletal-like covering over her hand and replacement digits for her first two fingers, against the white of her other glove, “Chicken or beef?” She jokes and he smiles, small nostalgias to share between people at opposite axes. 

Scooping rice and meat into his mouth, appetite flush with health, Ryder feels more in tune with his body again, the taste and sensation of vegetables not freeze dried only compounding the hunger and satisfaction to his first meal in many hours. Spooning the soft white and vibrant colors, he washes it down with a long drink of infused water, glancing to the door pinging open, thinking the nurse might be back. 

Reyes stands in the doorway, and when he walks in, Ryder thinks if he was able, he would stand to greet him, but the thrill unlike any other at the sight of another person remains the same, his heartbeat thumping, body responding. His eyes linger on Ryder, thoroughly examining him and then he asks, coming further into the room, “How is it?”

“Better dining than I can get in the Nexus medbay.” He says and Reyes smiles ever so slightly, settling into his seat by the bed, moving the datapad. 

“The Collective grows its own vegetables?” 

“We do all kinds of things.” 

Ryder scrapes the side of the bowl, hand securing it and takes another big bite, “Are there a lot of other rooms? I haven’t heard anything going on outside.”

“Sound proof walls.” Reyes supplies, putting his boots up on the bedside railing, and Ryder thinks of all the agents walking those hallways he doesn’t remember travelling and the multitude of lives rich and explored in the depths of Draullir caves. 

“Is there anything the Charlatan hasn’t thought of?” Ryder humors, finishing his drink, arching his neck for the final drops. 

“Can’t have any secrets leaking out.” Reyes says and when Ryder looks into those cunning, brown eyes he sees while the words sound light, the waltz of wit and amusement between them effortless, a dance the man’s perfected, they’re serious. Reyes looks back, lets him see maybe, and invites Ryder to comment if he so chooses. 

He chooses not to. 

Food finished, Ryder pushes the tray to the side, sighing and looks up when Reyes offers him the datapad. 

“Recent news about the Angaran and Nexus alliance has been officially released.” 

Ryder takes it, clicks the screen on and sees the article with a picture of the Moshae and Evfra standing on Aya, expressions careful but elegant, grace obvious as he holds her slender arm in support. He reads, looking over the article stating the Moshae’s intention to visit the Nexus, pave the path for future Angaran politicians after their successful exchange with the Pathfinder. He turns the article for the next, reading about Eos’ lake no longer needing to be purified three times for use, the radiation almost non-existent by this point. He sees mayor Bradley’s addition to the situation, his confident and optimistic forward-looking praise for the work done and the opportunities for more people to get their hands figuratively and literally dirty. He quirks a small smile remembering the man’s hearty, genuine laughter and fond, paternal brown eyes glossing over Eos as they stood together in the excitement of lasting victory. The next article speaks on potato farming, the values and the benefits and without realizing he’s settled into the comforting presence of the other man and the rare chance to consume information merely for the interest and not for the responsibility he must maintain toward each and every situation. 

Silence not tense with necessary problem solving gives a long stretch of time meant just to contemplate and Ryder scrolls through a magazine of nature shots, Keri’s team managing to put out pieces just to prove their universe beautiful and nothing else. Stars they will all come to know but are twinkling with new design and moons shades different than Earth but just as poignantly melancholy in the darkness of space. The sprinkle of new green in Eos sand, and water gleaming fresh like the promise of an afternoon swim in childhood freedom. 

Lowering the datapad, Ryder turns his gaze to Reyes who is typing fluidly on his omni-tool, the glow of orange warm on his brown skin, smooth on cheeks and glowing in brown eyes, making a glistening jewel of red and hazel. How many times has he tried to memorize every detail of this man’s face? Capture expression different and set it to memory for a later Ryder to access and burn privately for? But nothing, not even the striking, vivid memories that come to him everywhere including in dream can do justice to the real moment. The man’s presence takes the senses, touches each one exactly, never overwhelming one more than the others and not even the most lifelike remembrances can revive every sense, an echo through a mirror where scent is only a faded, painfully brief flash of an almost and touch unforgiving to second best. Reyes, despite living in every one of Ryder’s fantasies shared between himself and his hand, never claims the spotlight, a man to be sought out, a fine wine without a label, an infamous party without invitation. A man there and then gone without another word. 

“Hey.” 

Those eyes flick up from the screen, and Ryder almost licks his lips, asking for things he can never quite get enough of. 

“Got any playing cards?” He grins, indulgent in time given to him, time he knows is sand grains in their hourglass that might not ever be turned over. 

If Reyes is busy, he doesn’t say, and the omni-tool is vanished. “I won’t go easy on you just because you’re injured.” He stands and Ryder says, “Just because I’m injured doesn’t mean I’ll be easy.” And they smile, laughter minimal but not disingenuous. 

Cards spread, casual conversation sits between them beckoning alleviation to a future separation that will inevitably invoke emotion sharp as the recovering lung in Ryder’s chest. He laughs when Reyes takes the first round with record speed and little resistance on Ryder’s side which has the man looking at him with knowing eyes. 

“Practice round.” Ryder offers and Reyes smirks smoothly, “Then we’re betting this round.”

Stomach hot, Ryder asks, “What’s on the table?”

“I’ll show you when you lose.”

So he does. 

It doesn’t take much for Reyes to kiss Ryder breathless into the sheets but the satisfaction isn’t any less potent, good hand pinned in the pillows, gloved fingers drawing tingling lines along bare skin that run vibrations of pleasure straight through his very core. His bad arm, despite beginning to ache with all his movement, curls fingers into that folded collar, pulling it down so he can bite, drag teeth to the spot for a mark all his own, visible if someone were to see the man without his leather and clothing. A claim to the unknown, a carving in their figurative tree. His nose pressed to the man’s throat breathes in that cologne and if he wasn’t thickening with blood before, he is now, pleasantly stinging beneath teeth on his jaw following his jugular, and promising rising red and adrenaline to the vulnerable. 

“This feels more like I won.” Ryder says, words airy, cheeks warm, and his heart squeezes when Reyes looks down on him, handsome in the shadows accented by the grey walls and low ceiling. Complicated, a puzzle figured with a thousand pieces, he wonders to the very depths of his soul what the man’s thinking but the press of lips on lips, the sensation like two lovers grateful for the chance to see each other again speaks volumes without words. He softens beneath the waves, wanting deep into his marrow. There is no impatience to the touch, but he knows of a new desperation not to be attached to the bed and to his mistakes brought to life by blood trauma. 

“Careful, Ryder.” Reyes warns him, voice a murmur just between them and his other hand ghosts over his side, “You’re still on bedrest.” And how he aches not to be. 

Instead he insists, “Come a little closer.” And Reyes, with one good jerk and motion unlocks the railing of the bed and drops it down out of the way. He settles closer, making sure not to aggravate Ryder’s chest tube and kisses him until he’s got arousal singing in his blood and his pupils are blackholes, sinking color. 

His body throbbing, Ryder is beginning to get stiff neck muscles and Reyes rises, letting him grimace through relaxing protesting body parts. He’s bled through some of his bandage, the peeking red of his own injury on white a clear indicator he’s pushed limits and Reyes says, “I’ll get you fresh ones.” But Ryder has the space now to catch a hand and he draws him back to the bedside and down for one more kiss, rising up on a protesting hand. 

They pull away, Ryder following the man with his eyes across the room, groaning when he’s alone, readjusting his underwear. Falling back into the pillows, he hasn’t been happier to be kissed uncomfortable in his pants since boarding school and relives a private, youthful affection that is deeper than he will admit to anyone but himself. The cool scent of Reyes’ cologne is still holding him, lingering, and he thinks, if it were possible, he would let the marks the man leaves stay forever, keeping their residual fire just beneath the skin’s surface, just to remind him of passion shared. Cracking a smile, he chuckles at his own expense, touching kiss marks special to feel their spark. 

When Reyes returns, he’s fast asleep, healing, dreaming in the safety of domestic togetherness crafted in the small space between their masks and roles. Days pass similarly, until he’s able to be free of his chest tube and stand. His armor is patched, and all his personal belongings, mostly weapons and field supplies, are returned in pristine condition. Reyes sits in his chair as Ryder dresses himself, cognizant of his shoulder, and when he’s finished, they look at one another and communicate the time to reassume their roles for outside eyes. 

Winding tunnels on a small vehicle rush wind over their faces, as they sit beside each other in the back, the bumps and turns distinct with the size of their transport. Knowing they are mere movements from each other, a brush of the fingers, the touch of a knee, makes Ryder yearn to return to the freedom of being able to reach out whenever he wanted but soon the light of a Kadara day stings his vision and he sees the entrance to Draullir caves expand swiftly. 

Waiting, standing before the parked Nomad, Cora peers at the darkness, brow serious and expression tense. She sees the approaching vehicle, sends a signal to the Nomad and approaches with quick steps, light on her feet. 

“Ryder.” She says, and he can see her hand almost reach out to pull him into the light but she resists the reflex, letting him walk to her, the sunlight after so many days beneath low, warm electrical light making his eyes sensitive. “Are you okay?” She looks him up and down for anything amiss, something altered in the time spent away, touching him at the elbow, and he looks over his shoulder to the cave but the vehicle is already gone and so is Reyes. 

“I’m okay.” He answers, searching the depths, thinking maybe he can see the retreat of wheels, Cora’s examining stare going unnoticed for a moment of heartache before he pulls himself free of longing and gives her a smile, walking her towards the Nomad where other team members are waiting, “What did I miss?”


End file.
